I'll Be Home For Christmas
by Rose and Psyche
Summary: An RAF officer goes home on Christmas Eve, 1943, after two years in the Mediterranean. Canon.


I'll Be Home For Christmas

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><p>Victoria Station, London, December 24, 1943, 1830 military time.<p>

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><p><em>I'll be home for Christmas<em>

_You can count on me_

_Please have snow and mistletoe_

_And presents on the tree_

~o*o~

A lone officer in the blue-gray of the RAF stood on the flagstones. The deep booming roar of many voices rebounded from the vaulted ceiling of Victoria Station and he turned slowly, the expression on his face slightly bewildered by the sights and sounds that met him. The arching steel beams that supported the roof were reminiscent of the hammerbeams on some great hall of a medieval castle.

"Pevensie! I _say_, Pevensie!"

At the sound of the voice, the officer turned, his face lighting as he saw another RAF officer drop what he was doing and sprint towards him.

"Peter Pevensie! I haven't seen you for what, two years?"

"Balder!"

Peter shook the hand offered him, "Really good to see you again, old chap. And Tony!"

He bent down the ruffle the ears of the black and white spaniel that stood, tail wagging, next to Balder.

"You haven't been shot down yet, then?" Peter asked with half a glance at the dog. Balder always took the dog whenever he flew.

"Not yet, have you been again?"

"Twice now, that time in '40 and now more recently."

"More recently? What happened?" Balder asked, "Where have you been? Last time I heard the old squadron was shipped out overseas."

"We were sent to the Med," Peter said with half a grin. "Our squadron was flown off the US carrier, _Wasp_ and we spent some time down there."

"I've heard things were pretty hot down there."

"Literally," Peter said, "they threw everything they could at us. Malta was ground down like chalk under a mortar and pestle. More bombs fell on Malta then on London since the war started."

"And you were shot down?...Squadron Leader," he added with a grin, glancing at the dark blue stripes on Peter's sleeves.

"I made a belly landing in Sicily," Peter said. "Spent the night running. I finally ran into an outpost I thought was British. I gave the password, it wasn't returned and before I knew it I was on my knees with a Lugar aimed at my brain."

"You were taken prisoner?"

"Not until after I made a dash for it and was knocked down by four bullets hitting me at once. Nearly knocked my arm off. Nicked my finger," he showed a scar on his finger where a bullet had swept part of the bone away.

"Sounds like you had a tough time, old man," Balder said. "How'd you get away?"

"I jumped out the window of the train that was taking me to a POW camp and legged it to Switzerland. Now here I am." Peter grinned.

"Is that where you got the Distinguished Service Order?" Balder asked with an admiring grin as he poked at the dark red and blue striped ribbon bar on the end of Peter's block of ribbons.

"Something like that," Peter said, "And what have you been up to?"

"Night fighting," Balder said, "I got in with a squadron flying Defiants. Never seen a worse design for a fighter. We're in Typhoons now."

"I'd like to get my hands on one of those," Peter said, "they look gorgeous."

They were outside now, watching the auto cars and London double-decker buses motor past, all going about their business as if there wasn't a war that raged on four fronts somewhere overseas. Behind them, the gray façade of Victoria Station rose noble, a relic of London of the past, a London that was the largest city in the world, a London that was the center of commerce and industry.

"Look here Pevensie," Balder said, turning to him, "I'm awfully sorry, but I've got to head off. I've got to report back to base at 2400."

"That's all right," Peter said, shaking hands again. "Don't want you getting into hot water."

"Where are you headed, Pevensie?" Balder asked.

"Chelsea," Peter said, "we live on the corner near the Church."

"The white house?"

"That's the one."

Balder nodded and sized Peter's hand one more time, "It really is good to see you, old man. You know, you, me and Walker are the only ones left from the old 1940 squadron?"

"I heard that," Peter said.

"Makes one think, doesn't it?" Balder said. "Anyway, Happy Christmas, old man. It must be corking to be back with your family for Christmas."

Peter nodded, serious, "I haven't seen them since 1942."

"Many siblings?" Balder began, then grinned, "Don't answer; I've got to leg it."

"So long!" Peter called as his friend dashed away, the spaniel on his heels.

"Cheerio!" Balder called.

Alone again, Peter stood silent on the stretch of gray asphalt in front of the station. The snow was falling heavier now, spiraling down, looking as gentle as the bombs that had rained over Malta. The roar of automobile engines filled his ears and for a moment, London was thrown out of focus, only grayness before his eyes that slowly solidified into the shadowed instrument panel on his spitfire. Once again, he held the stick easy in his hand, his feet on the pedals. The prop spun in a blur, the yellow tips flashing in an arc past his gun sight. In his mind's eye, he could see the ship in formation next to him, wing tip hovering a foot or so above his canopy. He could see the flashing blue of the Mediterranean and the shadow of the formation, slipping over the waves far below.

"Going somewhere, flyboy?"

Peter started and looked up, his eyes focusing on a driver, leaning against his taxi.

"Chelsea," Peter replied.

"I'll take you there."

"I was planning on walking," Peter said. He hadn't the money. He'd been given some, but he'd blown most of it on the railroad fare.

"I'll take you free of charge and welcome," the taxi driver said, flashing a grin. "I owe you chaps something. I think Mr. Churchill was right about us never owing so much to so few."

"Well, thank you," Peter said.

"Hop in, sir," the driver said, opening the door for him. "Injured?" he asked when he saw the way Peter was holding his arm.

"Some Germans used me for target practice," Peter said with half a grin, "thanks."

The door closed and the diver climbed in himself, glancing over his shoulder as he threw the auto car out into the traffic, stepping on the petrol and jerking ahead of a bus. There was a long drawn out honk from the bus and Peter saw the driver smile with satisfaction in the rear view mirror.

The trees that surrounded Buckingham Palace had lost their leaves and stood naked, reaching towards the snow that was falling heavier all the time. Peter craned his head for a view of the palace itself, but an automobile; headlights obscured due to black out regulations blocked his view. Everything was the same, yet different. He knew Buckingham palace stood as it always had through the years behind its shroud of trees. He'd seen St. Paul's, Big Ben, Tower Bridge, Parliament, the features on the great face of London; they all remained, yet so many things had gone. Where the Great Fire of London had ravaged in 1666, this new great fire had ravaged again, raging like a blizzard of flames. He'd had it all from the letters from home, Edmund's detailed and almost military in nature and Susan's talking about her patients at Charring Cross Hospital. But he had learned most from Lucy's, her writing so vivid and beautiful that he could see the bombs as they fell, hear the rattle of incendiaries bouncing on the street, watch as firefighters were knocked down as the hoses bucked like wild things, and smell the sweetness as ancient buildings of wood seasoned for hundreds of years, smoldered and burned.

They were entering Chelsea. Peter started up, staring out the window of the taxi as the place of his childhood rose around him, windows taped in criss-cross patterns to keep the glass from breaking, sandbags piled against walls and ARP wardens out now that dusk was falling.

Two wardens stood on the corner, one, tall and skinny, looked strangely familiar; his tin hat sliding over his face, the big 'W' stark in the gathering darkness.

"Look, driver," Peter said suddenly, reaching forward to tap the fellow on the shoulder, "You can let me off right here."

"You sure, sir?"

"Yes, thanks for the ride."

He had the door open as the car stopped and stepped out on the curb, half noticing that he had somehow scuffed the shining black leather of his shoe. "Thanks!" he called again as the Taxi pulled away and he held himself down to a walk, making for the corner where the two wardens stood.

They were talking; he saw, their voices clear in the silence on the street. He stared at the one on the right, the skinny one. There was only one person who stood like that, swinging up and down on the balls of his feet as if he were always ready to tackle someone.

Peter stopped behind him, realizing with a shock that the warden was nearly as tall as he was. Carefully he cleared his throat.

"Warden," he said, "Wonder if you might tell me the way to King's Road?"

The warden swung around, light on his feet as a cat. If he had a weapon he would have drawn it. Before him he saw a tall man in RAF blue, his hands deep in his pockets, his cap at a roguish slant on his head. From the stripes on his sleeves he was a Squadron Leader, a pretty sturdy rank.

"It's a block away, sir," the warden began, "just take this first right and you'll be there."

There was a moment of silence and the Squadron Leader shifted slightly, then chuckled. "Edmund, you're thick."

Edmund's jaw dropped and he stared. Yes, yes… it was, it _had _to be! "Peter?"

His heart raced as he grabbed his brother's arm and squeezed it as if to break it, "Peter!"

Peter thumped him in the chest and threw an arm over his shoulders, "My baby brother has grown up. What have you been doing with yourself?"

"Peter!" Edmund was limp in Peter's grasp. "You were missing in action! What happened? Did you escape? Tell me, tell me!"

"Slow down old man," Peter said, "One thing at a time. How's everyone?"

"Oh fine," Edmund said, half annoyed, "But what happened?"

"I crash landed in Italy. Soft underbelly indeed," Peter grinned, "Was captured and escaped. That's my story in a nutshell."

"Tell me everything!" Edmund exclaimed.

"There's a bit to tell," Peter said, "I was thinking I'd wait and get it over in one go with everybody. You're bound to have a million questions."

Edmund shook his head incredulously, staring at his brother with wide eyes; his voice was low when he finally spoke, "I am so glad to see you."

Peter grinned, "Can you take some time off your route and walk me home?"

"I'm going by there anyway," Edmund said. "Someone's bound to be showing a light."

"Right-o, baby brother, old chap," Peter said.

Edmund was filled with questions, yet as they walked side by side in the dusk he couldn't think of one. He kept glancing up, half incredulous, to see Peter looking at him, the corner of his mouth twitching as he threatened to laugh.

"Someone's showing a light."

"What?" Edmund started out of his reverie, to look where Peter was pointing. A crack of light was showing in a basement window at their feet.

"Got to do something about that," Edmund said. "They say Jerry can see a lighted match from ten thousand."

"They must have better eyes than I do," Peter commented as Edmund trotted up the steps of the house and pounded on the door. An upstairs window opened with a creak and the shadow of a head looked out.

"What's up?"

"You are showing a light!" Edmund called. "Basement window!"

"I'll go down and see." The window closed and presently they saw a hand at the window at their feet, shifting the blackout curtain so no light showed. A moment later the front door opened.

"Is that better?"

"Much, thank you!" Edmund said, then turned to Peter, "Let's get on, then."

The darkness was deeper and Edmund switched on his red bulbed flashlight, playing it eerily over the sidewalk under their feet.

"You're going to scare Mother to death," Edmund said at last, breaking the silence.

"What do you suggest?"

"I could break it to her gently."

"How so?"

Edmund shrugged, "What were you planning?"

"Knocking on the front door."

"That'll be gentle," Edmund said with a grin.

Peter caught his breath as they turned the corner, there was the old house, glimmering ghostlike in the dusk. The windows were dark and he could just see a sprinkling of snow on the lilac bushes, gleaming like the flowers did in the summer. Edmund opened the gate and the next moment they were walking down the front walk and up the steps to stand hesitantly before the door.

"I'll just knock, then, shall I?" Peter said, his voice suddenly tight.

Edmund shrugged and Peter knocked.

"That'll be the air raid warden!" they could hear Lucy's voice as clear as a bell and Peter could almost imagine her bounding off the sofa. The door opened slowly and Edmund winced when a shaft of light lit them and fell tumbling down the steps. The Jerries might not be able to see a lit match at ten thousand, but they could certainly see this.

Their mother stood in the doorway, her apron smelling faintly of apple pie, her dark hair swept into a bun. She looked at them curiously, dark eyes wondering, then suddenly frightened as she took in the RAF officer who stood with such a swagger on her doorstep, his silver wings gleaming on his chest above a block of ribbons.

"Do you…do you have information on my son?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Happy Christmas Mother," Peter said quietly, it didn't come out the way he'd planned, but it didn't matter. For one moment more she stared, then her eyes lit and she choked back a sob as she threw her arms around his neck.

Peter felt Edmund propel him into the hallway as he closed the door. "They haven't bombed since last year, but there's no point in letting every bomber around for miles know where the Pevensie house is," Edmund explained.

Lucy was coming out of the parlor, her hair flying, a question in her eyes, then she saw him and Peter staggered as yet another person swung off his neck.

"Peter?"

Peter glanced up to see Susan standing in the kitchen door, heat and light following her out.

"Happy Christmas!" Peter called and she ran to him, the tears pouring down her face and Peter wished his arms were longer so that he could hug them all. They were all crying and suddenly even Peter felt tears pricking his eyes. Thank goodness Edmund didn't start bawling like a girl, he didn't think he could have stood it. There was a rush of cool air behind him, then voices and a pair of strong hands squeezed his shoulders. He winced as a shock of pain went through his old wound and he looked around into his father's eyes.

"My boy," Mr. Pevensie said quietly, squeezing his shoulders again.

"Hullo dad!" Peter said.

"This is going to be the best Christmas ever!" Lucy cried, her tear soaked face muffled against the gray-blue wool of Peter's uniform.

~o*o~

_Christmas Eve will find me_

_Where the lovelight gleams_

_I'll be home for Christmas_

_If only in my dreams_

~ A Christmas song recorded in 1943 by Bing Crosby

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><p>Author's Note: I'd been wanting to write something like this for a while, so I settled down and did it tonight. Consider it a late Christmas present. Hope you like it. It deserves to be mentioned that Parliament and Buckingham Palace were bombed during the war, but the damage was repaired. (Obviously).<p>

I did up thier ages a bit. Peter would have joined the RAF at seventeen and a half. Mrs. Pevensie was alarmed seeing an RAF officer on her doorstep because officers would bring the news of the death of sons.

~Psyche


End file.
